


Muertos

by philomel



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-11-05
Updated: 2011-11-05
Packaged: 2017-10-25 17:24:03
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,062
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/272862
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/philomel/pseuds/philomel
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sam can’t help but think that everything he puts his faith into ends up falling apart.</p><p><span class="small">Spoilers up to and including episode 4.07.</span></p>
            </blockquote>





	Muertos

“The more you look back, the farther away you get. So don’t.”

Castiel’s tone is hard but his voice is soft.

His quietness unnerves Sam. He wants to run, he wants to stay by his side. He feels like he should get down on his knees. He feels like he should shake him until he crumples to the ground. He doesn’t know what to do with this knowledge, this evidence that there is something to believe in, but that what he believed in is actually different than what he thought. He doesn’t know what to do when he looks into the face of an angel, faces a living symbol of God’s existence, and sees rejection there.

Sam can’t help but think that everything he puts his faith into ends up falling apart.

At Jess’s grave, it never seemed clearer. He traces the etching of her name in the headstone with the beam of his flashlight, reading it to himself like a silent prayer. His tongue clicks against the roof of his mouth as he passes over the “c.” His lips purse when he gets to the “M.” He can’t say her name aloud, but it sits like a lump in the back of his throat and, when he swallows, it doesn’t go down. He doesn’t need to read any lower, doesn’t need to see the date that will always be etched in his mind. It is three years to the day since she died, since he brought death to her.

He mouths “I’m sorry” because it’s only for her, and he’s got nothing to apologize to the angel for, at least not yet.

Her grave is pristine, taken care of, but he sweeps a hand over the top of it. He kneels on the grass and brushes his fingers gently down the front, tenderly curling his nail into the curve of the “J.” There’s no dirt, but he carves out the other letters too. It feels good to be meticulous; it feels useful. When he’s certain her headstone is clean, he pulls a handful of flowers from the inside pocket of his jacket. They’re only crushed a little, and they’re still fresh. Their fragrance hits him hard, reminds him of the smell of her hair after she washed it, though the scent was of different flowers—exotic ones, not reeking of earth like these.

“Marigolds,” he says, looking at her portrait set into the granite, ignoring everything else. “I don’t even know if you liked them. But I hope you do.” His hand lingers over the bunched stems as he places the bouquet on the ground. “Did.”

“Sammy.”

Although it’s said quietly, barely above a whisper, Sam jumps at the sound of his name — his name said like _that_.

He’d forgotten. Unlike Uriel, Castiel never shows up when Sam is alone. He seems to be tied to Dean somehow, tethered by an unseen chain to go with the angel’s unseen wings. Maybe they’re connected by the scar on Dean’s shoulder: the one he kept hidden from Sam until he couldn’t, the one he still hides, hastening to tug on his shirt after each shower, never undressing past a t-shirt when he goes to bed. Sam snatches glimpses of it every now and then, a bright red weal that still looks like it burns, looks like it must be hot to the touch.

He can feel the heat coming off Dean now, his hand somewhere near Sam’s shoulder, close but not touching. He hopes Dean doesn’t touch him. If he does, he might turn around and punch him or he might give in and cry. He doesn’t know which would be worse.

The dew from the grass is seeping into his jeans and his knees are beginning to ache and the light from his flashlight is starting to dim. But at this moment, there’s nothing Sam wants more than to sit here on the cold ground at Jess’s cold grave. There’s nothing he wants more than for Dean to go away, taking Castiel with him, so he can stay here until the battery dies, then he’ll stay by her side in the dark. He’s almost ready to tell them to leave him alone when he remembers.

Settled into a corner of his jacket pocket is a set of keys: a spare for the Impala, one to Bobby’s place, one for his dad’s old storage locker in Buffalo, a skeleton key that’s only worked once (at an old colonial in Maryland) and one to an apartment that burned down. Still attached to the last one is a small red keychain, a white “S” in its center. He traces the collegiate letter with his thumb, pauses at the bottom curve before sliding the metal ring off of the key.

“It’s all I have,” he says. He lets the keys drop back into his pocket and places the keychain on the ground next to the marigolds—red and orange side by side, colors of fall, colors of fire. Sam closes his eyes, hoping to shut off the memory of those bright, thieving flames. His eyes sting with tears he doesn’t want to cry.

Sam doesn’t jump when a hand closes over his shoulder. He’s used to being saved from this, pulled out of the hell that follows him everywhere.

He turns around, and Dean is there, urging him up. On his feet, he’s not so steady, and part of him wants to fall back down, and part of him wants to walk away. His hand goes to Dean’s chest — to steady himself, to push him away, to pull him close, he can’t decide. Something pokes into the palm of his hand, and he lifts it. The little gold skull of Dean’s amulet sticks to Sam’s skin as he pulls away. Its face is impassive; it reminds Sam of Castiel, minus the horns.

But then, he never even saw his wings, so how does he know he doesn’t have horns? Other than by his word. Other than by the books that tell him there’s no other way he could have gotten his brother back. Other than by his mere existence — stabbed, shot at, but still here.

Still here. Sam looks at Dean. He says, “Let’s go.”

As they walk away, he can feel Castiel’s presence like a fluttering just behind their shoulders, but he doesn’t look back.

**Author's Note:**

> • For raynemaiden, who — a while ago — gave me the prompt: "Any pairing, any rating: keychain, flashlight, Dia de los Muertos (Mexico's Day of the Dead)." Beta also provided by her.
> 
> • Los Dias de los Muertos occur on November 1st (on which day deceased children are honored) and 2nd (on which day deceased adults are honored).  
> • Jessica Moore died November 2, 2005.  
> • Mary Winchester died November 2, 1983.
> 
> • Several of the traditions surrounding el Dia de los Muertos include visiting and cleaning the graves of departed family members or loved ones. Traditional objects include sugar skulls and marigolds. Trinkets are sometimes placed on the graves as well as on altars in the families’ homes. See [here](http://www.mexconnect.com/mex_/feature/daydeadindex.html) for more information on the holidays.
> 
> • And although it is antithetical to the celebratory mindset of el Dia de los Muertos, some of this ficlet was indirectly influenced by the song "I Am Stretched On Your Grave," translated by Frank O’Connor from a traditional Irish poem and performed by many (although, in my opinion, best of all by Sinéad O’Connor).


End file.
